Visitation
January 30, 2021
Dear Hunter,
I had the craziest dream last night. Maybe you can help me understand it.
I enter a large bathroom in an old home or hotel. I struggle to keep the door closed; then, I figure out that the latch slides along the edge of the door. Once it's secure, I turn around, look for the toilet, and then cross the room to it. I notice the end of a cigar still burning in an ashtray. “That's weird,” I think. Then I look up and see my dad sitting, real as can be, in a recliner about six feet away. I can see him from the side and back and know, without a doubt, it's him. I'm shocked to see him and say, “Since when do you smoke cigars?” And he says, “I don't do it much. It reminds me of my dad.”
Suddenly, my body starts to levitate, first as though I were sitting in a chair, and then I'm lying flat, circling him about three feet off the ground, astonished at what's happening. I'm trying to talk with him as I move around him. I'm not controlling my body, and he doesn't seem to be either. He's delighted that I know how to levitate, as it's an advanced skill.
Finally, I settle to the floor and touch his arm to make sure it's real. Yup! The real thing. This must be what it's like when Monika sees people! Wow! “How is life now?” I ask him. “It's good,” he says, with a tinge of sadness. “It's good to see you,” he says. “I'm sorry.”
Was Dad sorry about you dying? Or for the way he died so young? I feel a weight on my chest as I write this. I also thought—whoa! My skills are developing; this is soooo cool! I would love to have more of these experiences. What is the significance of this visitation? It's been thirty years since Dad died—he’s missed half of my life (at least in physical form). It’s strange to be on the cusp of my sixty-second birthday (he died at this age) with both parents and my only child dead. I don't feel old, yet I’m old enough to be a grandmother. Old enough to be an elder. Old enough to be a crone. My hair is slowly lightening with streaks of gray; my skin is loosening, and my heart is scarred. I'm softer around the edges and more direct, bold, and unapologetic. I care less about what people think of me and more about being me. This gift comes with age—though some receive it sooner in life and others never do. For me, it's an ongoing process of fine-tuning authenticity, listening to myself over others, and expressing what is rather than hoping for an alternate reality.
Can I change the subject? I've been thinking about the things we say like “Happy Birthday,” “I'm sorry for your loss,” and “How are you?”—all of which are convenient conventions that often stall out conversations and deaden the heart. What if being happy on my birthday isn't what I want or need, especially if this is my first birthday or holiday without you? Why not take a moment to say something meaningful and personal? Sure, it takes a minute, and people might have to face those pesky feelings of inadequacy or fear of doing it wrong, but imagine the impact.
Here's the picture that just came to me. I can imagine the difference between having a hundred friends wishing me “Happy Birthday” on social media versus the same hundred sending me five words describing what they love about me. One feels bland and flat. Though it is an attempt to connect, little has been communicated. The other feels like a blossoming flower, a discovery, a bridge built, and a highway of love flowing without restraint.
How will I feel on Thursday when I wake up to my first birthday without you? I'm crying as I write this, so that's a clue. I don't want to feel happy on this day. I want to feel what I feel, whatever that is.
How do I get this across to people, Hunter? I’ve been shamed for naming what I need on this grief journey, and the pain of that has left scars, yet I don’t want to let this bring me down or shut me up. I long for meaningful, personal messages on my birthday. What do you love and appreciate about me? What if this were our last interaction? What would you want me to know? How would that change what we say to each other? I feel more courageous when I think this way—having made the mistake of thinking I had plenty of time to communicate my feelings. If I've learned anything from sharing the rawness of my heart, it's that the more vulnerable I am, the easier it is for people to come close. This is the heart working through the ache of being human IN community. Your death has taught me this.
I will need your strength as I honor the day of my birth without you,
Mama
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